by Marja McGraw
“Uh huh. I’ll come on one condition.”
“What’s that?” My turn to sound suspicious.
“I’ll do the barbequing.”
Well, that wasn’t a big deal. “Of course you can do the barbequing. I’ve never used a grill in my life.”
“Uh huh,” he repeated. “Okay, let’s go take a quick look at the attic and see just how much junk is up there.”
“It’s not junk, they’re antiques.”
“Wait until we see what’s there before you decide if it’s junk or antiques.”
Before we climbed up to the attic, Pete took a good look around the house. “This isn’t bad. It looks like it’s in pretty good shape, and the renovations helped. Not bad at all.”
I knew that was about as close as he’d come to a compliment. Antiques were old junk to him, and I figured an old house fit into just about the same category.
We climbed the stairs to the attic and Pete whistled. “I had no idea you were talking about this much stuff.”
“I tried to tell you. It’s like over the years people kept adding to the clutter instead of cleaning it out. I guess it was too overwhelming for anyone to deal with.”
“Let me think for a second.” He hung his head and closed his eyes. The eyes popped back open. “Okay. Since we’ve still got the moving truck until this afternoon, let’s start in the attic and leave the things you brought with you alone for now. We can throw what you don’t want into the truck and I’ll drive by the garbage dump and drop it off. Sound like a plan?”
“Sounds good to me. I’ve got plenty of time to take care of unpacking my own things. And I’m dying to get to that desk.”
“What desk?” Pete asked.
“Look waaay back in that corner,” I said, pointing. “You can barely see it.”
“Probably junk,” Pete said under his breath.
Chapter Forty-two
1909
Vincente passed on to meet his Maker early on a foggy Monday morning in 1909. His life had been dark, and so was the morning he gave it up. Somehow that seemed appropriate.
Merced was heard to say, “The old skinflint will have a lot to answer for when called upon to explain his life. I’d not care to walk in his shoes on Judgment Day.”
Merced and her children were to meet with an attorney after the funeral. She hadn’t seen the old man in a very long time, and couldn’t help but wonder what was in the will. She wouldn’t be surprised at its contents when it was read but would feel almost relieved not to have any more ties to the old man.
Her last conversation with him had been one she would never forget, try as she might. She’d always said that the man had no conscience, but she hadn’t known how close she was to the truth.
Vincente had revealed things to Merced that she could only wish he’d kept to himself. But in the process, he did solve the puzzle for her. She knew what had transpired on the night of the murder. She found herself feeling sorry for the soiled dove. No one should have to go through what happened to Jessica on that night.
Remembering her conversation with Vincente caused a cold shiver to run down her spine.
2003
Initially the boxes we opened contained newer things, left by more recent tenants, and we dispensed with them in a hurry. Pete carried the boxes down to the truck, emptying two of them and bringing them back to put trash in.
“While I was downstairs the guy from the phone company showed up. I told him to wait and you’d be right down.”
“Thanks, Pete.” I climbed down the stairs and showed the technician up to the second floor, where I wanted another extension put in. There were already extensions on the first floor.
I left him to his work, telling him he could show himself out, and joined Pete in the attic.
We began sifting through the older boxes. We learned by the second box that we couldn’t assume what looked like a box full of junk was actually trash. Whoever packed these things had used old pieces of clothing, tablecloths and whatever else they could lay their hands on, to cushion keepsakes and glassware. It really was just like being on a treasure hunt.
“This is going to take forever,” I said. “There has to be an easier way to do this.”
“Yeah. Throw it all away.” Pete tossed an old blanket into an empty box.
“No way. I may want to use some of these things in the house.” I unwrapped an old figurine. Off-white with no markings, it reminded me of the pictures of Nancy Drew on the original book covers. The figure was wearing a long dress and had old-fashioned shoes on her feet. She wore a wrap around her shoulders, and a big, floppy hat covered her hair while gloves protected her hands. It looked like she was running in the wind. Her stride was long, her dress was blowing, and her hands were up, holding onto the hat that covered curly hair. If she carried a flashlight and a magnifying glass, she could be the original Nancy, looking for clues.
“What’s that?” Pete asked. He stopped when he saw me studying the piece.
“Doesn’t this remind you of Nancy Drew?” I handed it to him to look at.
“Sandi, I have no idea what Nancy Drew was supposed to look like, nor do I care what she looked like.” He handed it back without even glancing at it.
“This is what she’s supposed to look like, and I’m going to put this figurine in my office. After all, she was a detective, and reading books about her sparked my interest in mysteries.”
“Right.”
We continued to unpack boxes, and I had to admit to myself it was turning out to be more work than I’d anticipated.
“Do you have to go through all of this today?” Pete asked. “Can’t some of it wait?”
“I want to get it out of the way so I can see that desk.” I glanced longingly toward the piece of furniture resting in the far corner.
“Is that all? I can fix that.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Watch me.” He began moving, rearranging and stacking boxes, much to my chagrin. He wasn’t being very careful of the contents.
“Slow down,” I said. “You’re going to break something.”
He slowed a notch, but not much. Before long he was actually clearing a path to the desk, and I kept all comments to myself, although I did let out a gasp when two of the boxes fell over and I heard the sound of breaking glass. He ignored me and kept stacking. That’s when I began helping.
The closer we got to the old piece, the more excited I was.
“That really looks like a very old desk,” I said.
“It looks beat up to me. Looks like there may be some other furniture back there, too.” He was squinting, trying to see what all there was.
I didn’t want to comment further until I could take a better look at it. The attic was relatively dark. There was only one window that gave us minimal sunshine, so I wouldn’t be able to work upstairs unless I rigged up some type of lighting. Maybe an extension cord and a lamp would work. A very long extension cord. I’d work something out.
“Oh. Look at this, Pete.” I’d moved a box, and behind it was an old cedar chest. “Help me clear the boxes off the top, will you?”
I handed him each carton until the chest was uncovered, then pulled it out where I could take a better look at it.
“It’s in pretty good shape,” I commented. “I think these boxes have been protecting it. A little furniture oil, and I’ll bet it will be beautiful.”
“If you say so.” Pete wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to my find, but had begun moving boxes again.
“I’d guess this chest is probably from the 1920s,” I said with authority. I knew just enough about antiques to make me dangerous, but the chest had an art deco look to it, a style typical of the 1920s.
Pete grunted in reply. “You gonna stand and stare at that thing or help me?”
I began dragging the chest toward the door.
He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Wait a minute. I’ll help you.”
“Well, don’t put yoursel
f out.”
The chest was heavy enough that I knew there were things packed inside. I was tempted to open it before I went back to work, but after a glance at Pete I changed my mind. I’d open it after we moved it downstairs.
“Let’s leave it up here for the time being,” Pete said. “It’s heavy. It’ll be okay. We can move it later.”
“Okay.” I was reluctant, but agreed anyway. “But let’s push it out of the way. I don’t want it to get scratched while we’re shifting things around.”
We continued to move boxes, chairs from an old kitchen dinette set – no table – and various odds and ends. Pete and I carried the rickety chairs down to the truck. I made him wait while I opened a few more boxes. I was able to throw out more trash, and every carton we threw away made things a little easier. He carried the boxes of trash down to the truck.
We were gradually working our way to the back of the attic, piece by piece.
“Sandi, once we make it to the desk, let’s take a break. You know, I wouldn’t do all this work for just anyone.”
“I know, Pete. And thank you for all of your help. I really do appreciate it.”
We didn’t have too much farther to go. I finally had a better view of the desk. I couldn’t help smiling.
“Oh, it’s just what I was hoping for,” I said. “It’s a roll top desk, and I think it’s oak. Is that Victorian style?”
“How would I know?” Pete stopped and took a better look at it. “It looks pretty rough to me.”
“No, a little tender, loving care and it’ll be beautiful.”
Being so close gave us both renewed energy and we began moving things as quickly as we could.
“It is oak, Victorian and a roll top,” I said in wonder. “Just look at it, will you? It’s gorgeous. That baby’s gonna look great in my office.”
“Sandi, will you be realistic for a minute? Look at it. It’s old and beat up.”
“It’s just dirty, and I can clean it up. You won’t even recognize it, trust me.”
“Okay,” he said noncommittally. “I’ll withhold my judgment.”
I tried to roll up the front, but it was stuck.
“Let me try that,” Pete offered. After several minutes and quite a bit of huffing, he stopped and slapped his hand against the top of the desk.
“What is it, Pete?”
“It’s locked.”
I tried, not quite successfully, to hide a snicker. “Oh. I’ll call a locksmith after we get it downstairs.”
“No, you won’t need to. These are easy locks to pick. I’ll open it for you after we move it.”
“Good. You can teach me how to do that.”
“You need two picks, and you’ve got to listen very closely for the clicks – ”
“Wait until you’re doing it,” I said. “I’ll learn more from actually picking it. Let’s try to get this downstairs.”
We shoved more boxes out of the way and managed to turn it sideways, but it was extremely heavy. We could barely budge it.
“Don’t worry,” Pete said. “I’ll have Frank and Stanley help me move it. I’m ready for that break now. Let’s get something to eat.”
I hadn’t noticed until he said the word eat, but I was hungry. I’d been too busy to pay attention to the noises my stomach was making.
“I’ve got the makings for sandwiches downstairs,” I said. “Come on.”
“Nope. You wait here and I’ll go get us some sub sandwiches. I saw a place about two blocks away from here.”
“Umm, that does sound tasty. My treat though.” I found my backpack sitting on the kitchen counter and fished a twenty out of my wallet. “Make mine roast beef.”
“Be back in about half an hour.” Pete left and I sat down, enjoying the peace and quiet. It didn’t last long though, because that desk had my full attention.
I climbed back up the stairs to the attic and gazed at the desk again. I opened a few of the drawers that graced the sides of the old piece. The desk had never been emptied. As I began sorting through some of the contents, I realized I had a major find on my hands. There were letters addressed to Merced Chavez! I could hardly contain my excitement. This had been my Grandmother Merced’s desk.
Chapter Forty-three
I pulled a box over to sit on and began going through the rest of the drawers. There was one drawer right over the cubbyhole where a person’s knees would fit when sitting at the desk. I opened it and found – nothing. Nothing but an old newspaper used for lining. As I began to slide the drawer shut, it stuck and I had to wiggle it to get it to move. Something caught my eye. The newspaper had moved and I could see paper sticking out from under the edge. I carefully lifted it out.
It was a letter dated February 1, 1907. I recognized the handwriting as Merced’s. It began, “Dear Sister.” Apparently, this was a letter that had never been mailed. The fact that it appeared to be hidden under the paper raised my curiosity level several degrees.
I tried to read it, but there wasn’t enough light. Carrying it downstairs, I sat down on the couch, holding the letter gently. What I read made me tighten my grip on the pages.
Dear Sister,
I have thought things through and waited for many months before writing this letter. This is a difficult time for me. I have so many conflicting thoughts and cannot decide what, if anything, to do.
Vincente came to visit me one evening. This was unusual because he very seldom seeks me out, but he explained that he needed to discuss a few things with me. He came into the parlor and seated himself as though he still belonged in my home. He leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest, as is his habit, and stared hard into my eyes. It was unnerving, to say the least.
V. first mentioned the gold. He said that if anything were to happen to him, he wanted me to know it was where I could easily place my hands on it. I asked him where that might be, and he responded with a chuckle and one of his nasty looks, saying it wouldn’t be that easy for me.
The old skinflint then asked me if I was going to hire a laborer to work on my yard. He said he would pay to keep the yard in good stead, because it was beginning to appear shabby and this reflected poorly on him. I told him to tend to his own business. The trees and flowers were fine and my property was envied by many, and I mentioned that he should have thought of his reputation long before now.
I couldn’t understand what his visit was about. What did V. want of me? Surely he didn’t come to discuss my garden.
He sat quietly after that, twisting that gaudy ring of his around his finger, fidgeting as a child would. I asked him what he had really come for.
He said he needed to talk to me about the harlot who had been murdered. He knew who’d done it. It has been ten years past, according to my calculations, so why would he bring this up now? I politely told him to remove himself from my home. I suggested he talk to the police, not me. I didn’t want a thing to do with the sordidness of this thing he was talking about.
V. continued to sit and stare at me. Unfortunately, I could not hold back my curiosity. I asked him who the devil was.
The telephone rang and I jumped.
“Not now!” I shouted.
I picked up the receiver and heard a mechanical noise. Realizing it was a telemarketer, I tried to slam the phone down, but it was cordless. I had to settle for pushing the Off button with fervor.
It took a moment to find the place where I’d left off. I had to know.
Unfortunately, I could not hold my curiosity back. I asked him who the devil was who had taken the woman’s life.
Vincente told a terrible tale. Miguel had waited until late, long after V. left for Little Paree, then visited the house. He admitted to V. that he tried to force the harlot to tell him where his brother had hidden the gold. Miguel didn’t believe her when she told him she didn’t know its location, and he beat her harshly, but he left her alive. You may recall that my neighbor reported seeing Miguel leave a bar and he appeared to have been in a brawl. The woman had tried t
o defend herself by hitting Miguel with a rolling pin. He took it from her and used it as a weapon against her.
Oh, Sister, that gold has been the cause of so much evil. I have found it, but will leave it in its hiding place. I can’t bring myself to even look at it. If a future generation does find it, I hope it has lost its devilishness by then.
V. explained that the harlot (I cannot bring myself to utter her name even though she came to such a cruel end), sent a boy from the streets to fetch Dr. Drake. He arrived and refused to help her. He said she had received what was her just due and he had no time for her, unless she would share the wealth with him. He, too, lusted for the gold. The doctor even tried to tempt her with the offer of medicines. (I knew of her problem, although V. had been blinded to it.)
I asked V. how he knew this. He said he and his friends had paid the physician a visit. The doctor went the way of Miguel, and was beaten severely, but he told V. the truth. He and the woman fought, and he pulled a towel from the sink top, wrapped it around her neck and tried to squeeze the life from her. Fear gripped him when he realized what he was doing and he let go, with the woman dropping to the floor. She was still breathing when he left.
Dr. Drake left town suddenly, and now I know why.
Did I tell you that the other harlot, Florence, did away with herself? I remember that I wrote and told you she was suing V. for Breach of Promise. I believe that is what it is called. Now I wonder if her death was really by her own hand. It happened such a long time ago, but at the time I didn’t give it much thought.
But to return to the sordid story.
And how do you now know who murdered this woman? I asked.
V. told me he had returned home earlier than expected on that night. He saw Miguel enter the house. He thought to confront them, realizing that he and the harlot must have a liaison, but changed his mind and walked back toward Little Paree. He said he needed to walk off some of his anger.
“You did nothing?” I asked him, knowing full well that this man normally acted first and walked off his anger later.